


To Hell and Back

by firstdegreefangirl



Category: The Rookie (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Songfic, Tim and Isabel are canon compliant, Tim has a feeeeeling, but Lucy is there to help him, but he still cares about her, he doesn't handle it great, hungover!Tim, which means divorced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstdegreefangirl/pseuds/firstdegreefangirl
Summary: He’s got to feel like death warmed over, even if he feels better than he looks. Her heart clenches, thinking back to the phone call she’d gotten the night before and wondering what, exactly, led them here.Aside from the copious amounts of alcohol, obviously.“So. We should talk about what happened last night.”
Relationships: Isabel Bradford/Tim Bradford, Tim Bradford/Lucy Chen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	To Hell and Back

**Author's Note:**

> Don't blame me. Maren Morris hit me in the feelings and then I spread the love to Tim and Lucy and all of you. 
> 
> So I guess maybe only blame me a little? But I promise I fix it for the ending. 
> 
> (Also, check out To Hell & Back by Maren Morris. It's such an inspiration for this)

Lucy turns around from the coffee maker when she hears Tim trudge into the kitchen. He drops himself into one of the chairs and groans as he buries his head in his arms, trying to block out the light. 

She leans across from him and presses a warm mug against the outside of his hand. Without looking up, he gropes blindly to wrap his hand around it, trapping her fingers underneath his. He finally sits upright, and Lucy winces on his behalf when he digs the fingers of his other hand against his eyes. 

He’s got to feel like death warmed over, even if he feels better than he looks. Her heart clenches, thinking back to the phone call she’d gotten the night before and wondering what, exactly, led them here. 

Aside from the copious amounts of alcohol, obviously. 

“So. We should talk about what happened last night.” She keeps her voice at a gentle whisper, trying not to make his head hurt any worse than she knows it already must. There are heavy bags under his eyes, like he’d hardly slept even after she’d gotten him into bed, 

Lucy feels her stomach rumble, and she considers fixing breakfast for the two of them, but reconsiders when she takes another look at Tim. She’s pretty sure that even the mention of food will make his stomach roll, knows how nauseated he probably feels already, without bringing scrambled eggs into the picture. 

“Nothing happened.” He’s staring past the mug, like he can see through it to the counter beneath. 

“Tim.” Lucy sighs. She’s trying not to push too hard, drive him away from her entirely. But she also knows that there has to be a reason for everything that happened, some sort of driving factor he hasn’t revealed yet. 

"Nothing. Happened.” Tim’s voice isn’t any louder, but he punctuates each word with a slow blink. Lucy leans forward. 

“Charlie called me to come pick you up after you drank too much. At 8:30. I showed up and you were wearing a suit jacket with your jeans. Don’t tell me that’s nothing, Tim.” 

Tim looks up for a long moment, just enough to stare at Lucy while he takes a deep breath. She can practically feel the gears turning in his head as he tries to comprehend what she said and how he wants to respond. 

The hangover gets the better of him, though, and his shoulders droop as he looks back down to stare at his hands. Lucy is pretty sure she’s not supposed to hear what he says next, from the way he’s mumbling, but there’s no other noise in the room to drown it out. 

“I can’t get one day a year?” 

_One day a year?_

Lucy has no idea what that could mean; she knows Tim has gone to the bar before. She’s gone with him, and there have been a handful of nights when he’s gone out on his own or with Angela and Harper. He’s even gotten beers with Mitch a couple of times, since he’d started the live-in security job Tim had found for him. 

But he’s never come home drunk like he was last night, and he’s certainly never needed the bartender to call Lucy to come pick him up. 

She remembers how he’d looked when she first saw him from the doorway of the bar, half-slumped over an empty rocks glass as he asked Charlie for a refill. Charlie had pointed at her and turned him down, an unexpected move that Lucy had understood as soon as Tim had turned to follow his finger. 

His cheeks were tinged pink, the alcohol making his every movement uncoordinated and gangly, like a teenager stuck halfway through a growth spurt. 

“Rough day?” Lucy had asked, sliding up onto the stool next to him. 

“Let’s go with that,” He’d replied, and refused to say anything else while she settled his tab, drove him home and steered him into the bedroom. He was asleep almost as soon as she’d tugged his boots off, and hadn’t surfaced until much later this morning. 

So if he’s talking about “one day a year,” there’s got to be a deeper reason that a night out that got away from him. 

“For what?” She asks, running her thumb along the side of his. It’s a gesture meant to soothe, but Lucy can’t tell if it works or not. Still, Tim doesn’t move away from the contact, so she’s inclined to call it a win. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“Tim-” Lucy opens her mouth to tell him that she’s always going to worry about him, because she cares about him, and she wants to know what’s on his mind, even when it’s not something good. 

“Don’t.” He narrows his eyes, but Lucy thinks he might be squinting against the brightness in the room. “You shouldn’t have to be worried about it, because I shouldn’t be worried about it. I’ll be fine next year.” 

“Next year? That's a lot of days to wait, between now and then.” 

“I’ll be fine tomorrow too. I get one day a year. April 17, that’s it.” 

“So I’m just in the dark for 364 days?” Lucy tries to keep the frustration out of her voice, but she can’t help the feeling that Tim is hiding something big from her, something bigger than he try and work through by himself. 

“It’s fine,” Tim’s voice sounds distant now, like he’s not even really sure what he’s talking about. “I don’t even know why Charlie called you.” 

Their hands are both still wrapped around the mug, and Lucy can feel the coffee inside turning lukewarm. She slips her fingers out from underneath Tim’s and pushes gently on the back of his hand. 

“Drink,” She insists, before she says anything else. “He said you kept telling him how good I am to you.” It hits her suddenly, a wave of awareness that makes her feel sicker than any hangover ever could. She knows Tim can have a self-loathing streak a mile wide, and the idea that she could be contribution to this … whatever this is … kills her a little bit. “Does that … do I have anything to do with it?” 

“No.” Tim answers quickly enough that Lucy knows he’s telling the truth. And he takes a drink of the coffee, even if he turns his head to look away from her while he does. 

“Alright, so it’s not about me, but it is about April 17.” Lucy pauses to think, trying to figure out who or what else might have gotten Tim so far from his usual self. There’s only one other person she can think of. “Is it … Isabel?” 

Tim doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. His shoulders slide up toward his ears, and his jaw sets itself a little tighter, and Lucy has all the answers she needs. She moves around the kitchen island to stand beside his chair, not quite close enough to be touching, but close enough that Tim could reach out for her if he wanted to. 

He doesn’t, though. He just sits the mug down and wraps his fingers around the edge of the counter, holding on tightly enough that his knuckles are turning white. 

“What about her?” Lucy tries again, still keeping her distance but turning enough that she’s facing Tim’s profile now, watching the way his eyes flicker over to look at her, then go back to the mug on the countertop. His shoulders flex, muscles twitching underneath the faded T-shirt he’d been wearing under the suitcoat last night. Lucy had wrestled him out of his shoes and given up, deciding that he could wash the bedding later if the smoke smell the jacket had picked up in the bar bothered him that much. 

Served him right, she’d thought at the time, for dragging her out to pick his sorry ass up. 

But now she just feels bad, wishes she’d have done more to help him last night, when he was so clearly hurting. She could have undressed him, could have poured a glass of water down his throat, found a couple painkillers in the cabinet. Instead she’d just let him pass out fully clothed, laid down next to him and tucked her head into the crook of his arm. 

She’s so focused on the memories from the night before, everything she’d go back and undo if she could, that she almost misses Tim’s hoarse whisper. 

“April 17, 2005.” 

2005, that’s … 16 years in the past. She thinks about the information she’s gathered: April 17, something about Isabel, it only happens once a year, and 2004. 

There’s only one answer that comes to mind, only one thing that could still have such a profound effect on Tim all these years later. Because it hasn’t really been 16 years; it’s only been three. Four, counting the year Isabel was on the streets. 

“Your anniversary?” She matches his volume level, breathes the words as much as she says them, and chances a step closer to Tim. When he doesn’t move away from her, she wraps one of her hands gently around his forearm and runs her thumb alone his skin. 

He doesn’t say anything, not right away, but he slides the coffee mug between his hands so he can reach over and cover her fingers with his own. 

Lucy doesn’t say anything either, knows that Tim needs to break this silence on his own terms. Until he’s ready, she’s content to sit here with him and share in the moment, support him any way she knows how. 

“I get one day a year,” He’s still whispering, even more quietly this time, like he’s talking to himself. But he looks up, toward Lucy but not quite at her, and she knows that she’s meant to hear the next sentences. “Shouldn’t even need it, not anymore. I’ve got you, and you’re my future. The past shouldn’t matter.” 

“But it does matter.” Lucy leans close enough to press a kiss to his shoulder, through the material of his shirt. When she looks at his face, he’s smiling sadly, and his hand squeezes her minutely, giving her the encouragement she needs to keep talking. “You’re the sum of everything that’s ever happened to you. And Isabel was a huge part of that.” She turns her hand over, letting her knuckles rest against his arm so she can twist their fingers together. “You can have your day. And a few others, too, if you need them. And in between, if you ever feel like talking about her … I’d love to hear it.” 

Tim is quiet again, long enough that Lucy begins to wonder if he’d fallen asleep while she was talking. But he’s still clinging to her hand like a lifeline, so she’s pretty sure he’d heard her. 

When he does finally respond, Tim tips his head to rest against the top of Lucy’s, still leaned against his shoulder. 

“I’m not unloading all of my baggage onto you.” He sounds resigned, beaten down, so unlike the assertive and surefooted man Lucy’s grown to love. If he were anyone else, Lucy would think it was a sign of distrust, his way of saying that he didn’t want to share himself with her, not completely. 

But it’s Tim, so she knows that he’s trying to protect her. He’s always protected her, through her worst days and his most obnoxious tests. However he’s feeling, he’s afraid of burdening her with it, of being more than she can handle. 

She never wants him to feel that way, doesn’t want him to have to hide anything from her, even if he thinks it’s for her own good. Still, she knows how hard this must be for him to talk about, his divorce so recent compared to the length of the marriage that preceded it. 

“No, you’re not,” she says, shifting to press her body against his side, hoping that her touch might comfort him. It's the same move he pulls whenever Lucy’s past rears its ugly head: create as much contact between them as he possibly can, grounding her back to the here and now. From the way she can feel his body relax minutely, it seems to work the other way around too. “But you can tell me stories, help me understand what she means to you.” 

“Meant.” There’s no conviction in his voice, though. Lucy can tell that he’s trying to convince them both that it’s true, but neither of them believe it for a second. 

“Means,” she corrects. “It’s OK that she still means something to you. I mean, you were married for what … 15 years?” 

“13. 12, if you don’t count …" He falters. “The last year, she was …" 

“I know.” Lucy saves him from having to give voice to the thought, knows they both remember the first time she met Isabel, almost a year after Tim had last seen her. “But what about before that? You guys met in academy, right?” 

“Leave it alone, Lucy.” She feels his shoulder go tense beneath her ear, but he doesn’t try to make her move, so she knows she hasn’t pushed too far yet. She’s not planning to push too far, doesn’t want to cross any of the hard lines. But the grey area? 

Well, her mother always used to say that no one ever made progress by staying in their comfort zone. 

“I’m in a new relationship now – _we’re_ in a new relationship now. The past is the past; I’m a changed man.” Lucy knows Tim can’t see her face from this angle, but grimaces anyway. Everything he’s said sounds like the platitudes someone would find on the back cover of a self-help book for the recently divorced man. 

But he’s not the stereotypes, and she knows that. His divorce didn’t follow any of the usual lines, and neither has anything that he’s done since. Most divorcees don’t spend a year waiting for their wife to come home from her latest drug trip, then ask their rookie out less than six months after the papers clear. 

Well, newly-minted P-2. He’d waited all of 20 minutes after her last shift under his charge had ended to ask if he could buy her a drink. Two nights later, they’d had dinner together, and they celebrated their first anniversary a month ago. 

Lucy smiles fondly at the memories, but realizes that Tim is still waiting for her to say something. 

“You don’t have to be.” She hesitates, then tries again. “A changed man, I mean. I mean, you are, because time changes people, But you don’t have to change _this._ Not for me. I fell for _you_ , just the way you are. Even the scars you can’t see.” 

At that, Tim turns to look at her. She only stumbles a little bit when his shoulder slides out from underneath her head, and he reaches forward to pull her into his arms. His chin lands in the space between her shoulder and neck, and he turns his face into her skin and kisses her gently. He murmurs something against her, but she can’t make out the words. 

She brings one of her hands up to cradle the back of his neck, brushes her thumbs against the fine hairs at the top of his neck. When she hums, it’s a wordless question, asking him to speak up. He leans back, just far enough to see her face. 

“That’s … sweet, Lucy. Really.” His arms tighten around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer, hips nestled between his knees, and punctuates his next sentence with a soft kiss on her lips. “And it’s exactly why I don’t want to bother you with this. You shouldn’t need to save me.” 

“I don’t.” She raises her eyebrows, puts all the sincerity she can muster into her tone. “You don’t need saving. I just want you to know that you’re not alone in this. I’ll always come pick you up, or sit with you, or whatever you need. Just like you do when I need it. We’re a couple of survivors, you and me.” 

Tim smiles at that, but there’s sadness in his eyes. Lucy knows he’s remembering the same moments she is, all the times they’ve been there for each other, all the ways they’ve helped. 

“You’re so much more than I deserve, you know that?” One of his hands traces up and down her spine, the soft touch relaxing them both. 

“You deserve _everything,_ Tim,” she says, hopes that someday he can believe it even half as much as she believes it for him. “You give me everything; can’t I give you this?” 

“You don’t want to hear these stories, trust me.” He grimaces. “Just … leave the demons where they are. You shouldn’t have to deal with my flaws.” 

“I’m _offering_ to. Do you have any idea how much you’ve helped me these few years? Hon, I wouldn’t have made it here alone. And you don’t have to either.” Lucy’s hand along Tim’s arm, squeezing gently at his bicep before continuing its path until he gets the message and lets go of her waist with one hand so their fingers can interlace. 

“I’m …" He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I appreciate that, Lucy. I’m not good at talking about it. Her. Isabel.” Lucy lets him stumble, waits patiently for him to figure out how he wants to continue. “We had something good, before … before. But then at the end, she … she was out there, living her life. Whatever she was doing, it was her life. Not ours. Not anymore. And I went though hell. And back.” 

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. 

His smile softens, and his fingers flex between Lucy’s. “You know, she loved that cheesy crap too. You two … I think you’d have gotten along. When I knew her.” 

Lucy smiles back, full of pride and encouragement that he’s opening up to her. She remembers calling Isabel to ask about Tim’s academy days back before his promotion, when she was helping him study for the sergeant’s exam. They hadn’t talked for long; Lucy hadn’t known what to say. What do you say when you call someone’s ex-wife to get help figuring out how to win his respect and affection with outdated police exam materials? 

But the conversation they did have was good. Isabel had stricken her as sweet, told Lucy a couple of stories about the year Tim had spent in her shoes, how Hawke had pushed him in so many of the same ways he’d pushed Lucy. 

“Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Lucy had laughed, and Isabel’s bright giggle had filled the other end of the line. 

“Not as much as you’d think,” she’d replied, before explaining all the ways she and Tim had studied together, how she’d always been the one to read the questions out, memorizing the codes by hearing him parrot them back at her night after night. 

At the end of the call, Isabel had wished her well, told her to take good care of Tim and not let him push her around too much. 

“Nah, I’m too stubborn for that. It drives him crazy,” Lucy had said, even before she knew just how crazy she made her TO. 

“I’d have liked to know her,” she says now, staring into Tim’s eyes. “But I’m … I’m glad you’re both getting to heal now.” She drops his hand and wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. The angle is awkward, the strain in her back almost uncomfortable as she leans her torso forward far enough to reach him, without being able to move her legs any closer because of the chair base. 

It’s worth it, though, when Tim sags against her, all of the tension dropping from his body as he pushes a deep breath out of his lungs. The air shudders when it leaves his mouth, but his voice is steady when he whispers. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” 

Lucy considers a sarcastic answer, telling him that she doesn’t know because he drives her up a wall, or that it really is sheer luck. 

But she figures that he’s earned her heartfelt honesty today, that the least she can do is meet him where he’s being open and vulnerable with her. 

“By being a good person, even when you’re a little rough around the edges. By loving me, and showing me how it feels to have someone care about you, even when it’s hard to care about yourself.” 

When Tim doesn’t say anything, she lifts her head up to look at him. There are tears shining in his eyes, but Lucy figures they’ve had enough of the raw nerves and open wounds for one morning. So she steps back the rest of the way, until his arms are loosely circling her waist but there’s space between them. 

“Now,” she continues. “How about I get us some fresh coffees, and we settle in on the couch and hang out while you nurse that hangover you earned yourself? We’ll talk about whatever you want.” 

“Sure.” Tim lets her go, and doesn’t say anything else until she’s turned away from him, pouring the room-temperature coffee down the sink and refilling their mugs. “Did I ever tell you about our first date?” 

“If it’s anything like ours was, I’ll need to sit down for this, I’m sure.” Lucy laughs when she turns back around, sarcasm lacing her tone. Their first date had been nice, but hadn’t felt any different than the countless other times they’d had drinks together after a shift, other than the way Tim slid his barstool close enough that their arms brushed against each other. Truthfully, it’s how she’d known that she was in the right place this time; she’d never felt so comfortable on a first date as she did with Tim. 

“Well, it started pouring rain while we were sitting on the beach, soaked us both to the bone, and I didn’t have a jacket to lend her.” Tim chuckles as he takes the mug Lucy hands him, and lets her lead him to the sofa, where she sits down and tucks herself against his side. 

She’s not sure why the universe brought them together, but she knows there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, no one else she’d rather spend her days with. They’ve got a lot to work through, and she’s sure there will be even more in the future, but she’s here for him, just like she knows Tim is there for her. 

Lucky for him, her kind of heaven’s been to hell and back. 

Lucky for them both. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check it out, a one-shot with a tied down ending! I _can_ do that!


End file.
